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<p>Well, hello, Ms. McAlister\u2026\n\nZade Painel\u2019s a man on a mission\u2014grab some much needed R&R at Gypsy Cove, and figure out how to reclaim his boudoir photography business. He never thought the answer would come in the form of a curvy, forty-year-old redhead and an accidental knee to the \u2018nads, but Janie proves to be a force of nature with a penchant for fixing things. She\u2019s also sexy as hell. One way or another, he\u2019s going to help her see just that. And if he plays his cards right, it'll be a heavenly hands-on approach that lasts way past seven days in paradise.\n"]">Clothing optional…

Janie McAlister should have known better than to trust her quirky sister’s taste in resorts. Instead of thatched-roof huts and designer pools overlooking the ocean, she’s landed at the one seventies throwback in the Riviera Maya with an open door nudity policy. No way is she going à la natural in public. And she’s sure not entertaining the advances of the bold young man with the delicious body daring her to do exactly that…and so much more.

Well, hello, Ms. McAlister…

Zade Painel’s a man on a mission—grab some much needed R&R at Gypsy Cove, and figure out how to reclaim his boudoir photography business. He never thought the answer would come in the form of a curvy, forty-year-old redhead and an accidental knee to the ‘nads, but Janie proves to be a force of nature with a penchant for fixing things. She’s also sexy as hell. One way or another, he’s going to help her see just that. And if he plays his cards right, it'll be a heavenly hands-on approach that lasts way past seven days in paradise.

Told in Zade’s Point of View:

The steady swish as Janie rubbed lotion into her legs sounded next to him. A coconut scent carried right behind it. “You said you’re a photographer, right?”

That made two details she’d remembered about him. Either she had an exceptional memory, or Ms. McAlister had given him a thought or two since yesterday. “Yep.”

“So, how could they screw that up?”

Well, this would be interesting. He sat up, planted his feet in the sand, and rested his elbows on his knees. “Because I had a specialty business. One that catered to women. One I busted my balls to make sure came across as tasteful and made them feel good about themselves.”

“What kind of specialty?”

He smiled, poised to catch her reaction as if he had his camera. “Boudoir shots.”

Janie’s hand froze mid forearm and she snapped her head around so hard, a strand of auburn hair tumbled over one eye. “Boudoir?”

“Nothing trashy,” he said. “All tasteful and meant to draw out a woman’s beauty. Usually with the help of their partner or husband.”

She licked her lip and started back up with the lotion, moving up to her shoulders in slower, deeper strokes. Shifting to face front, she focused on her toes and acted like they were chatting up the weather. In a tone a notch lower, she said, “And they screwed it up how?”

“You familiar with Glamour Shots?”

Her sharp laugh rang out across the cove and ricocheted back to them. Her easy smile stretched ear-to-ear, all the awkwardness of seconds ago obliterated. “Oh, Lord. Please tell me they didn’t gaudy up something good?”

“Double gaudy. Cheesy corsets, stilettos, and Photoshop. Everything that flies in the face of what I wanted to give them.”

“Give who?”

“Women.”

Janie’s gaze locked with his and, for a second, he wondered if she was holding her breath. She rolled her lips inward the way women did when trying to smooth out their lipstick, twisted as though looking for something behind her, and flicked the bottle’s top closed.

Her back. She couldn’t reach her back with the lotion. The cut of the swimsuit was low and her barely tanned skin was on display. Talk about divine intervention.

He stood and tugged the bottle from her grip. “Scoot up.”

“Huh?”

“Scoot up.”

Warily, she studied him.

He straddled the lounger behind her and sat.

“What are you doing?”

He squeezed out enough lotion to make damned sure he’d have to rub for a while. “Helping you with your sunscreen.”

“You can’t do that.”

“Why not? Would you rather burn?”

Janie twisted. “But it’s not appropri—”

His hands connected on either side of her spine and her shoulders snapped back. “Easy,” he murmured, curling his thumbs and kneading the back of her neck. “Just relax.”

Bit by bit, her muscles unclenched and her breathing grew choppy.

God, what was it about this woman? Touching her felt like more than just physical contact. There was a foundation to it. A soul-deep connection and communication that made every other intimate moment he’d had with other women seem cheap in comparison.

She let her head fall forward, and a few loose tendrils fell forward with it. A moan of satisfaction vibrated beneath his palm.

Slow and easy, he worked the lotion into her smooth skin. Relaxed movements meant to sooth and entice. He nudged her shoulder straps a little wider apart, and dipped his fingertips under them. “When’s the last time someone touched you, Janie?”

The pool noise faded to nothing, but the soft, peaceful pattern of wind, waves, and birds seemed to thicken and amplify.

A tiny shiver shook her. “A long time.”

Rhenna Morgan writes for the same reason she reads—to escape reality.

Yes, her life rocks—two beautiful little girls, a great husband, a steady job, and the kind of friends that would take you out back if you hurt her. But, like most women, she’s got obligations stacked tight from dusk to dawn. So, when the world gets her down, she slips into something…less realistic. Romance is a must. So is a steamy romp (or four). Nothing thrills her more than the fantasy of new, exciting worlds, strong, intuitive men, and the sigh of, “Oh if only that could happen to me.” If you’re picking up one of her books, expect portals into alternate realms and men who’ll fight to keep the women they want. Romantic escape for the women who need it.